DISRAELI’S MAIDEN SPEECH

Dominion, Volume 31, Issue 142, 12 March 1938, Page 3 (Supplement)

DISRAELI’S MAIDEN SPEECH

When He Was Howled Down \ UNWISE PARLIAMENTARY VENTURE Probably no maiden speech delivered in the House of Commons is recalled so often as that of Benjamin Disraeli on December 7, 1837, writes J- B. Firth in an exchange. Certainly none which failed as his failed It is worth while, however, to tell the story again, because, while everyone knows the ringing prophecy at the close, “Though I sit down now, the time will come when you will hear me," the real background of the episode is imperfectly understood. The ordinary conception of the scene is of an eccentric young man of genius, fantastically attired, howled down by a mob of Philistines who could not appreciate the wit and epigrams of the speaker. That is only a fragment of the truth.

The junior member for Maidstone in the 1837 Parliament was a personage by no means unknown by sight and reputation to the older members of the House. He was, in fact, one of the most notorious and most-talked-of young men of the day. He had gone all out for notoriety, and he had achieved it. His first novels, “Vivian Grey” (1826), “The Young Duke” (1830), “Contarini Fleming” (1832), “Alroy” (1833). had made him the talk of London society. The ostentatious foppery of his dress compelled attention. He wore his hair in a profusion of ringlets, oiled and scented. In his most dazzling Hights of evening dress he had once affected green velvet trousers, a canary-coloured waistcoat, silver buckles, and lace at the wrists. He had faced the “cads” of Regent Street in a blue surtout, military light-blue trousers, black stockings with red stripes and shoes 1 For his maiden speech he wore a green coat, a waistcoat covered with gold chains, and a black tie without a collar. Challenged to a Duel. It is also essential to a true understanding of the proceedings on the pight of December 7 to remember that in the course of his political candidatures he had fallen foul of Daniel O'Connell. Disraeli said of O’Connell: “His invective is slang. He is a systematic liar; a beggarly cheat: a swindler and a poltroon. He has committed every crime that does not require courage.” A brisk interchange of compliments —punctuated by a challenge to a duel —hud ended with a parting threat from Disraeli: “We shall meet at Philippi,” and “rest assured,” he had added, “that confiding in a good cause and in some energies which have not been altogether unimproved I will seize the first opportunity of inflicting upon you a castigation which will make you at the some time remember and repent the insults that you have lavished upon Benjamin Disraeli.” It was just this frantic boast which was primarly responsible /for the collapse of Disraeli’s maiden'speech, on December 7, 1837. Had he forgotten the taunt about meeting at Philippi when he rose to follow O’Connell on that memorable night? Or did he suppose that O’Connell would forget the threat of “castigation”? Philippi bad come and Disraeli had only to turn his face, pallid as death, towards O’Connell to see the Irish liberator, with his hat thrust down over the side of his face, waiting impatiently for the first pretext to start the shouting and halloo the Irish pack on. Courage and Self-conceit. Disraeli was mad to choose an Irish night for the maiden speech to which he had looked forward with supreme self-confidence. Nor was it merely an Irish night, it was a rowdy Irish night, for ’'the theme was the “Spottiswoode Subscription,” which had been started in London to raise a fund for presenting election petitions against the return of O’Connell’s supporters. Three or 'four times already the Speaker had threatened to leave the Chair because of the tumult when O'Connell, hoarse with passion, had branded Sir Francis Burdett as “an old renegade.” Disraeli might have known that he need expect no Parliamentary quarter from the Irish roarer who had already pilloried him on public- platforms as “a liar, the most degraded of his species and his kind, and .England is degraded in tolerating or having upon the face of her society a miscreant of his abominable, foul and atrocious character.” Why did not Disraeli, for his first Parliamentady display, choose another debate, another opportunity, and another man to follow? Partly, as I think, because of his superb courage, but even more because of his overweening self-conceit. He did not fail in speech. There was no distressing cleavage of tongue to jaw; no wincing from the savage outburst of contumely and ridicule. With becoming modesty he claimed the indulgence of the House for a new speaker, and then straighway forfeited the right to . that indulgence by, personal attack. The House was no less indulgent then than now to a maiden speech, and O’Connell’s pre-arranged onslaught by 30 or 40 members might have been safely parried if only Disraeli had not been tempted to his destruction.

What broke him down in the end was the derisive luaghter, which Interrupted his sentences before they had well begun, and utterly spoiled their effect.'

He bad prepared his words with care: at each preciosity his enemies affected to be overcome with genuine uncontrollable mirth. When he was provoked to improvised indiscretion they laughed the morq. When he said that he himself would not, on any aecount, be a party to treating any honourable gentleman in the way he was being treated they assailed him with redoubled fury. Peel did his best for his new recruit. Though rarely demonstrative in the House, he turned towards Disraeli and cheered him lustily. Other members of the Tory Opposition, though lacking enthusiasm for a new member who was obviously not one of themselves, joined in the tumult, if only to prevent the shouting Irishmen and Ministerialists from having it all their own way.

However, the moment came when a final crescendo of catcalls overwhelmed the speaker in the middle of a florid sentence depicting Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister, as ‘‘waving in one hand the keys of St. Peter and in the other .” The sentence was never finished, but Disraeli afterwards confided to the Attorney-General that he had meant to place in Melbourne's other hand "the Cap of Liberty.” Raising his voice to a "loud and terrific” scream he uttered his melodramtiic prophecy and sat down. It was Disraeli himself who muttered

the word “Failure” when his friend. Lord Chandos, approached him in the lobby with proffered congratulations. But it must have been a rare solace to his lacerated feelings when he heard that Peel himself had said to Chandas: “Some of the party were disappointed and talk of failure. I say, just the reverse. He did all that he could under the circumstances. I say anything but failure. He must make his way.” Peel was right. “Under the circumstances” Disraeli had had no chance. But they were circumstances of his own choice. Nevertheless, this inorti tying experience was the best thing that could have happened to him. His Second Speech. It taught him that the House of Commons was not to be stormed by boisterous assault; that its ear must be patiently wooed. The next time he rose —and it was witihn a fortnight—he spoke sensibly and quietly on a dull measure relating to copyright, and so during the rest of the session. Disraeli mitigated the fopperies of his dress. He subdued the flowing ringlets to a single curl, low on the forehead, which miraculously never lost its raven hue. He reserved his dazzling coruscations, his blistering sarcasm, his rude invective for the time which he always knew to be coming—and which, in its due course, arrived. Seven years later Disraeli listened in the House to the last speech of tlie man who had spoiled his first. O’Connell was stricken. The hand of death was visibly upon him. “A performance in dumb show,” Disraeli coldly noted; “a feeble old man mumbling before the table.’’